Every Fourth of July, when fireworks flash and fly across a desert sky, I find myself transported back to a twilight over Slane Castle shimmering with music and the notion of America. So very young, and had I not been awake, I would have missed it

. . . the whole of me a-patter,
Alive and ticking like an electric fence:
Had I not been awake I would have missed it

The Rolling Stones kept saying goodbye, and two years later, I found myself back at Slane to see UB40, Santana, and Bob Dylan. Too, there was the sweet surprise of Van Morrison joining Dylan on stage to sing “Tupelo Honey.” As I recall, Bono showed up as well and in front of all of us – and Bob Dylan – he improvised, making up his own lyrics to “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Honest to God.

But on June 1, 1985 – where I find myself every Fourth of July – America came to Ireland when Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band made their Irish debut. The previous summer, I had been in the United States, when the Born in the USA tour was in full swing and was lucky to have been upstate New York at the same time as Springsteen. I saw him perform at Saratoga Springs and again in September, when a trip to Niagara Falls with an American cousin included a show in Buffalo. I knew Ireland was in for a treat, and when tickets went on sale, I also bought one for my little brother. It would be his first concert – a seminal moment in his musical education.

Imagine it. Close to 100,000 of us making a pilgrimage through the sleepy – and disapproving – village of Slane to see The Boss. Between assurances of increased security and a promise – as yet unfulfilled – that this would be the last rock concert to disturb them, the residents had been placated. Even the weather cooperated with the kind of sun-drenched day we Irish pray for. Some said it was the hottest day on record in Ireland.

Everybody was young, even the weather-beaten old farmers who let us park on their fields, and when the band burst on stage with a thunderous “Born in the USA,” everybody was Irish, even Bruce. When he turned his baseball cap backwards and bragged, “I had a grandmother from here,” the crowd erupted.

Although we all basked in his pride, the reality was that our weather was rarely that sunny, and thousands of us would be forced out of Ireland as economic immigrants, collectively the “brain drain” of the 1980s. Across the water, Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister; farther afield, the Berlin wall was still standing; and, in Ireland, divorce was still illegal and condoms had barely become available without a prescription.

But on that glorious day, in spite of the economic and political truths of Ireland, and the ever-diminishing possibilities before us, a defiant Springsteen held us aloft, and we believed in America.

He’s a rocker, yes, but he has also always been there for people like me, people in search of the dream of America. I have always known I could count on Bruce more than any of the presidential contenders who convince me – daily – that the idea of America is unraveling. What do I know? I am not a politician or a rockstar. I’m just a girl with bad hair and a fearless heart and a conviction that we have lost our way.

Springsteen once told a reporter that he wasn’t cut out for the traditional school system:

I wasn’t quite suited for the educational system. One problem with the way the educational system is set up is that it only recognizes a certain type of intelligence, and it’s incredibly restrictive — very, very restrictive. There’s so many types of intelligence, and people who would be at their best outside of that structure get lost.

The Boss is on to something, but we know that Bruce Springsteen will never be an elected official. And we know he will never be a politician who would vilify immigrants or the working poor.

Immigration policy should be generous; it should be fair; it should be flexible. With such a policy we can turn to the world, and to our own past, with clean hands and a clear conscience.

Half a century later, such a policy remains elusive. Why is that? Why? And, which of the would-be presidents will step up and show us they understand the difference between the right to do a thing and doing the right thing? It remains to be seen.

While we wait, we have Bruce to lead us in a singalong, a proud and public celebration of the undaunted immigrant spirit:

I am proud to be here today as another hopeful wanderer, a son of Italy, of Ireland and of Holland and to wish God’s grace, safe passage and good fortune to those who are crossing our borders today and to give thanks to those who have come before whose journey, courage and sacrifice made me an American.

May 24 2016: Happy 75th Birthday Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan has always been almost as old as my parents. He has also always been forever young, staring up at me from the cover of the book that has graced my coffee table for decades.

I don’t remember when what he sang first mattered to me, yet I can’t remember a time when it didn’t, a time when I wasn’t tangled up in blue. In 1979, my high school English teacher let me borrow his Street Legal LP, an album that was crucified by a handful of critics who might consider themselves more qualified than I to measure the success of a Dylan song. (Not Michael Gray, mind you, who writes that it is “one of Dylan’s most important and cohesive albums . . . of astonishing complexity and confidence delivered in one of Dylan’s most authoritative voices.” He also points out that it was badly produced, but that doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me and anyone else who has ever missed someone – or something – is “Where Are You Tonight?” It remains a staple in the “soundtrack of my life” and maybe even yours. We all have one.

But without you it just doesn’t seem right.
Oh, where are you tonight?

“Hey, hey, HEY, hey.”

Where are you tonight?

Examining the cover of the Street Legal album, it occurred to me that this was the first time I considered Bob Dylan in color. Until then my idea of him was monochromatic, an iteration of the Bob Dylan we know from the “Subterranean Homesick Blues” video – forever flippant, flipping over his cue cards, dropping them in the alley. Deadpan.

During one of my first summers in the United States, an American cousin took me to Buffalo to see The Grateful Dead open for Tom Petty and Bob Dylan. In color. I had seen Dylan perform at Slane Castle in Ireland in the summer of 1984 – a mighty performance with Santana and a surprise appearance by Van Morrison.But this was different. This was as American as the idea could be. Deadheads. Tie-dye. Weed. The Wave. This was the Fourth of July. “It doesn’t rain on the Fourth of July!” Bob Weir told the crowd, and like poetry, the heavens opened. This was Positively 4th Street (What??), and I loved it.

As a going away present, my cousin later gave me the coffee table book. Published in 1967, it is a collection of photographs by Daniel Kramer. Black and white, these indelible images taken over a period of two years, reveal the young man Kramer characterizes as someone “who set his own marks and did not allow himself to be manipulated.”

For Kramer, Dylan is “someone worth photographing,” someone worth seeing from different perspectives. For me, Dylan is someone who forces you – without telling you – to shift a little in order to see better. Thus we find him perched on a branch in a tree or in an alleyway in London or Stuck Inside of Mobile. Or in the falling shadows.

Photography is just light, of course, and the good photographer finds the right light. It is writing with light, and there’s magic in it, as Amyn Nasser describes:

. . . the ability to stir the soul with light and shape and color. To create grand visual moments out of small and simple things, and to infuse big and complicated subjects with unpretentious elegance. [The photographer] respects classic disciplines, while at the same time insists on being fast, modern and wild.

Yes, the ability to stir the soul and to see things – like Bob Dylan sees things.

What??

Dylan has a way of seeing into things right in front of us and into the empty spaces between them. It makes sense, I suppose, that the self proclaimed song and dance man is also a welder, making gates out of vintage iron and scrap metal. Gates appeal to Dylan, “because of the negative space they allow. They can be closed but at the same time they allow the seasons and breezes to enter and flow. They can shut you out or shut you in. And in some ways there is no difference.”

Hundreds of fragments of songs from Dylan’s phases and stages ripple through every decade of my life, through all my twists and turns, through all the mess – the joy and the loss and the moments when my expectations were so low that I wanted only to make it through the day without being seen. By anyone. Nobody phrases it better than Dylan. Nobody.

On his 75th birthday this week, there will be fanfare and tributes and an unspoken relief that he is still with us in a year that has left us bereft, perhaps more aware of our mortality. There will be revised “essential” lists compiled by Dylanologists who have explicated and analyzed every lyric. There will be recycled stories about that time he was booed for going electric at the Newport Folk Festival, and perhaps renewed speculation about what if he had married Mavis Staples. What if? There will be arguments over the ‘seminal’ moments of his life. Some of us might disagree and just take a trip back to a hot night in the summer of 1988 when we saw him play at the Mesa Amphitheater – when lightning struck.

I just want to wish him a happy birthday and say thank you. I’ll maybe even buy a ticket to see him play one more time. With Mavis Staples.

First there was Molly, a retired racer who loved me. We had rescued her in the Christmas of 2008, on the heels of a spectacular crisis in my professional life, and she lifted my heart. Molly adored me, and the feeling was mutual. Elegant and affectionate, she knew how to be retired, but the separation anxiety was too much for her, and because I was unable to spend every minute of the day with her, I had to surrender her to the Greyhound Adoption Agency. Heartbroken, I promised myself – and my husband – that we would just stick to cats.

Then one early October morning a few years later, Edgar came into our lives, the moment we met indelible in my memory. My daughter and I had just left the gym, and there he was, standing in the center lane of a street already busy with the rush of early Monday morning traffic. Sophie spotted him first, alerting me to that fact by screaming at me to stop the car. She jumped out and – flailing wildly at oncoming traffic – she successfully brought it to a momentary standstill that allowed her to scoop up the tiny Chihuahua that trembled in the widening beam of the headlights before him, name him Edgar, and announce that he would be moving in with us.

In spite of having just completed several miles on a treadmill, I had not yet had my coffee. I was neither happy nor ready for a Monday or the prospect of a Chihuahua. Rather than argue or rise to the bait, I told myself we would post a few “Found Dog” signs around the neighborhood, and by the end of the day “Edgar” would be back where he belonged, answering to whatever name someone else had given him.

Sophie almost convinced me to let her stay home from school that day, so she could be with “her” new dog. He was shaking and scared, submissive and sweet, and Sophie was vexed that she could see his little ribs so plainly. Without saying it, I knew she knew that based on our experience with the beautiful Molly, a new dog was probably not in the cards. Her dad and I had established an unspoken rule – we were always good at that. One cat. No more dogs. No way.

But there were tell-tale signs that the unlikely Chihuahua was making his way into my husband’s heart. “Surely someone’s missing this little guy,” he’d ask. Repeatedly. Rhetorically. He bought dog food. He drove around the neighborhood, looking for “Lost Dog” signs, hoping to make some family’s day by returning their dog. Daily, he checked the newspaper and Craigslist to see if someone in Phoenix had lost a cute little Chihuahua. He took him to the Humane Society where he was informed that they didn’t take lost dogs. Still, they checked for a microchip. There wasn’t one. They estimated his age at about five years old, determined that “Edgar” hadn’t been neutered or cared for. He had bad breath and worse teeth. Malnourished and dirty, he weighed three pounds. Barely.

Within three weeks, it was clear that nobody was looking for this little dog, who in spite of having four perfectly good legs, expected to be carried everywhere. He was like a bag of sugar, so dutifully, we all obliged. He gained weight. He stopped trembling. He slept in our daughter’s arms every night. He came running when we called “Edgar,” and soon we were all in love with him, because, as poet Mary Oliver reminds us,

. . of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift.

A month later, my daughter and I were far away in Northern Ireland, leaving Edgar and the cat at home with my husband. It was dusk when we were with my parents and the blacksmith’s son in The Forge in South Derry, in Seamus Heaney country. We were there because I had given up waiting for a friend to come through with tickets for the free concert Van Morrison was giving at the Waterfront Hall after being granted the Freedom of the City of Belfast. With Van out of my mind and Barney Devlin’s son regaling us with the story behind the the midnight anvil – the one with the sweeter sound – I was in my element and couldn’t wait to tell Ken about it, knowing only he knew my affection for all things Heaney. When I called him, there was no answer.

There was no answer.

The unexpected sound of my own voice as my phone-calls continued to go straight to voice mail, transported me into a panic. A certain and unshakeable foreboding had me in a vice. It was not to be ignored.

Next, a flurry of texts between my best friend and me, in different time zones, on different continents. I was on the phone with her when she arrived at my house and looked through the bay window to see Edgar looking back at her, still and silent, knowing what she would find after she found the keys under the doormat and called my husband’s name three times over before finding his lifeless body, hoping he was just resting but knowing – as Edgar did – that he was dead.

I don’t know and will never know his final thoughts, but I must believe that when he died in our Phoenix home, my Ken’s last interaction on this earth was tender, with three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.

Late in the first summer following Ken’s death, Sophie told me that her day begins not with sorrow over the loss of her beloved daddy but with Edgar licking her face and making her smile. He is ready – always – to help her get ready to walk out into the world. “What about Edgar?” she pondered over pancakes one morning. “What if he spends every day just waiting by the door for me to come home? Doesn’t he need a friend to keep him company?”

Yes. He does. Don’t we all?

So I did a little research. I found out that dogs like Edgar are indeed in need of friends. According to the Arizona Humane Society, dogs like him have replaced pit bulls as the most abandoned breed. From January to March of this year, 821 Chihuahuas have been surrendered or brought into the shelter for a variety of reasons. In 2013, the Arizona Humane Society and the Maricopa County Animal Care and Control, the two largest shelters in Phoenix, received 10,535 Chihuahuas and euthanized 2,100. Knowing this, how could I not find a friend for Edgar?

After work one day, I took a detour home via the Arizona Small Dog Rescue. Having spent my lunch hour perusing their website – picture after picture of tiny dogs who needed a home – I was more than curious about a little black and tan Miniature Pinscher Chihuahua mix, just two years old. Rather than give her a number, they had assigned a temporary name – “Lupita.” The volunteer told me little Lupita had come from a “hoarding situation,” that she had been caged for most of her two years, that she was “as sweet as can be, quiet, mild mannered and gets along with all dogs and people who are nice to her.”
With that, I knew she would be coming home with me, that Edgar would have a new companion, that we would change her name to “Gloria” – with a nod to the most requested encore at a Van Morrison concert and, of course, to Ms. Steinem – and that my 16-year old daughter’s tender heart would expand once more.

When he announced he was going to tour again and that he would perform The River – all of it – I knew I’d be there, somewhere in the nosebleed section. Since 1984, I have seen Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band ten times, and there isn’t a 4th of July – or a Presidential race – when I don’t think of him. Real talk – when people ask me why I came to America, I know they know from something in my response that Bruce Springsteen is part of it. And, every Fourth of July, when fireworks flash and fly across a desert sky, I find myself flying back to a twilight over Slane Castle, filled up with music and the notion of America.

I am young, and had I not been awake, I would have missed it

. . . the whole of me a-patter,
Alive and ticking like an electric fence:
Had I not been awake I would have missed it

The Rolling Stones kept saying goodbye, and two years later, I found myself back at Slane to see UB40, Santana, and Bob Dylan. Too, there was the sweet surprise of Van Morrison joining Dylan on stage to sing “Tupelo Honey.” As I recall, Bono showed up as well and in front of all of us – and Bob Dylan – he improvised, making up his own lyrics to “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Honest to God.

I knew Ireland was in for a treat, and when tickets went on sale, I also bought one for my little brother. It would be his first concert – a seminal moment in his musical education.

Imagine it. Close to 100,000 of us making a pilgrimage through the sleepy – and disapproving – village of Slane to see The Boss. Between assurances of increased security and a promise – as yet unfulfilled – that this would be the last rock concert to disturb them, the residents had been placated. Even the weather cooperated with the kind of sun-drenched day we Irish pray for. Some said it was the hottest day on record in Ireland.

Everybody was young, even the weather-beaten old farmers who let us park on their fields, and when the band burst on stage with a thunderous “Born in the USA,” everybody was Irish, even Bruce. When he turned his baseball cap backwards and bragged, “I had a grandmother from here,” the crowd erupted.

Although we all basked in his pride, the reality was that our weather was rarely that sunny, and thousands of us would be forced out of Ireland as economic immigrants, collectively the “brain drain” of the 1980s. Across the water, Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister; farther afield, the Berlin wall was still standing; and, in Ireland, divorce was still illegal and condoms had barely become available without a prescription.

But on that glorious day, in spite of the economic and political truths of Ireland, and the ever-diminishing possibilities before us, a defiant Springsteen held us aloft, and we believed in America.

Until I bought the ticket for tomorrow night’s show in Phoenix, I had lost count of the Springsteen concerts I’ve attended. It matters not – I have always been able to count on him to stand up for people like me, for immigrants who are seeking America. I have always known I could count on Bruce more than the presidential contenders who manage to convince me – daily – that the idea of America is unraveling. What do I know? I am not a politician or a rockstar. I’m just a girl with bad hair and a fearless heart and – after three decades in education – a conviction that we have lost our way.

Springsteen once told a reporter that he wasn’t cut out for the traditional school system:

I wasn’t quite suited for the educational system. One problem with the way the educational system is set up is that it only recognizes a certain type of intelligence, and it’s incredibly restrictive — very, very restrictive. There’s so many types of intelligence, and people who would be at their best outside of that structure get lost.

The Boss is on to something, but we know that Bruce Springsteen will never be an elected official. And we know he will never be a politician who would vilify immigrants or the working poor.

Immigration policy should be generous; it should be fair; it should be flexible. With such a policy we can turn to the world, and to our own past, with clean hands and a clear conscience.

Half a century later, such a policy remains elusive. Why is that? Why? And, which of the would-be presidents will step up and show us they understand the difference between the right to do a thing and doing the right thing? It remains to be seen.

While we wait, we have Bruce to lead us in a singalong, a proud and public celebration of the undaunted immigrant spirit:

I am proud to be here today as another hopeful wanderer, a son of Italy, of Ireland and of Holland and to wish God’s grace, safe passage and good fortune to those who are crossing our borders today and to give thanks to those who have come before whose journey, courage and sacrifice made me an American.

Meta

Immigration matters

From there to here . . .

Yvonne hails from Antrim, Northern Ireland, and has lived in the desert southwest of the United States for almost thirty years. Married, with a daughter who is navigating her path through the "teen tunnel," and a haughty cat, Atticus, she has spent the better part of the last three decades in the classroom as a student, teacher, and administrator. Her mid-life crisis came as a sneaky Stage II invasive breast cancer diagnosis which subsequently sent her to the blogosphere where she found a virtual home away from home . . .